


Fate Deals A Cruel Hand

by JahStorybook



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Light Angst, Lore of Samodiva, Lots of Hurt, M/M, More to Jaskier than it seems, More to Yennefer than a sexy witch, Possession Kinda?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22612072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JahStorybook/pseuds/JahStorybook
Summary: “Won’t you save me,” the thing whispered, her voice slipping over Geralt like a fucking curse as her hand trailed down his jaw. Catching his hand as he brought it up shakily, she leaned in and kissed him and all control was lost. He shouldn’t even be affected by this, it shouldn’t be working on him, but he pulled his sword up and turned on the unsuspecting bard stumbling in the dark.Protect her. Kill him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 29
Kudos: 422





	1. Samodiva: Rage, wild

Sometimes fate deals a cruel hand, often when a person is born into as much misfortune as a particular white haired witcher. Geralt knew this, fuck he always knew this, but somehow, this was so much worse than any other time he’d drawn the shit end of the stick. Worse, he’d pulled the only person left he gave a damn about into the fire with him. Hadn’t he always promised himself he wouldn’t do that?

They had just reached some ratspit town, a village barely the size of a large barn that didn’t even have an inn as far as he could tell, when Geralt heard news of something killing crops and men disappearing, the women being found dead of their own hands. Jaskier had gotten that look in his eyes, turning to Geralt as if to say, “doesn’t that sound just like our kind of problem?” 

Despite his reluctance, the witcher agreed to investigate, leaving Jaskier with Roach to visit the farmland further from town. The men who’d gone missing were never returned, but he could maybe ask a farmer about that while he was there.

It turned out the whole thing  _ was _ exactly their kind of problem. Geralt took one look at the burned crops and the dry forest between the village and the mountains shielding them from the ocean, and he knew it was their kind of problem. The people offered him coin to fix it, and the witcher could only sigh and agree. And that had led to so much arguing when Jaskier insisted on following him in his search for the samodiva, a nymph of sorts that was hostile towards mankind. 

“This isn’t going to be fun or easy, Jaskier,” Geralt growled, ripping his sword from the bard’s hands as he attempted to help sheath it. Geralt was buying food for Roach, maybe looking for oil to burn a torch, all while Jaskier hummed and fluttered around him like some bug intent on driving him mad. “Stay.”

“And do what? This place is so boring, Geralt! What if I promise to hang back? I’ll stay right by Roach, never leave her side.” Bullshit. They both knew that was bullshit.

“No. If you come with I’m tying you to her,” he warned, hoping the threat would deter Jaskier. Geralt knew if he truly wanted to, he could knock the bard flat on his ass and go without him, he had every possible advantage over the man. Every advantage except one.

“It’s hell, you know? Watching you go and not being there by your side.” Geralt could only sigh at that. Like it or not, Jaskier was capable of making Geralt do anything he said, if he only used that soft pleading voice, those honest eyes. Every time it threw him for a loop and made leaving impossible. A witcher, dizzy with just a few small words. Luckily, the bard didn’t seem to realize his own capabilities. Geralt didn’t want to think what would happen if Jaskier knew how much power he held.

“You stay right by Roach,” he relented, telling himself the horse could at least protect the bard better than Jaskier could on his own.

“Really? I knew you’d see it my way! Come on then, we shouldn’t keep these dreadfully dull people waiting.” Leaving him to continue strapping up on his own, Jaskier all but ran out of the shop, saying something about getting Roach ready. Geralt didn’t exactly like the idea of taking him along to slay a beast, even if he was sure nothing would happen, but he could hardly stop him now. 

“Fuck.” 

They made it into the forest without delay and Geralt kept his eyes on every tree they passed, listening and watching and waiting for something to split in half with his sword. He expected based on the recounts of the villagers and the farm hand he’d spoken to that the samodiva was actually closer to the mountains, hidden in one of the caves, not in the forest closer to the people. The conclusion was not a welcome one. Caves meant walking into danger with one way out, no way to scout the enemy territory. 

Jaskier remained his usual chipper self throughout the trip, despite Geralt’s fowl mood, talking about everything he saw and not straying too far away from the witcher or his horse. Mostly because every time he did get a step too far away-

“Jaskier,” Geralt said when the bard had started wandering closer to the trees. Immediately he was back at Geralt’s side, ignoring the tired and threatening- barely- look he got. That was probably the fifth or sixth time.

“Does it look like anything bad is out there right now, Geralt? Honestly, you’d know if something was close enough to attack us.” Even if he had a point, Geralt wouldn’t risk it. Some monsters had been known to get the jump on him, especially when he was trying to drown out the inescapable noise of Jaskier being with him.

“Just stay close.” This was the side Jaskier often commented on late at night, voice weak with adoration. Geralt’s protective urges only grew stronger after their relationship turned less from mutual beneficiaries of each other’s work and more to… Geralt had yet to really put a name to it.

Friends felt too light, too frivolous, and didn’t exactly explain the nights of passion, but they weren’t exactly just having a few tumbles, and that really just left one thing. 

Geralt loved him, and if Jaskier’s songs and poems and late night ramblings about staying by Geralt’s side for as long as he’d have him were anything to go by, then it was mutual. They hadn’t said anything on the matter, not really, but Geralt knew it. He hoped Jaskier knew it too. One day they’d talk, very seriously, and tell each other how they felt, but for now it was too new and raw, too much like an open wound, for them to discuss it. It was, and that was all that mattered to either of them.

Still, that previously mentioned need to protect him from any and all harm took them both by shock. Geralt always let him fight his own battles, so long as he knew there was no real danger for the bard. This was mostly because Jaskier being a smartass warranted the occasional punch from a nobleman. But if there was any actual danger, a chance Jaskier was going to get hurt, Geralt stepped in. He usually shoved Jaskier behind him, and took control of the situation. That was harder to do when the damn bard kept stepping out of his reach every time a damn leaf caught his fancy. 

“Jaskier,” he warned again, this time sounding more tired than anything. Still, Jaskier came, huffing something about witchers and horse’s arses that made Roach huff at him, bumping him with her neck. Geralt smiled at that, although it was hardly noticeable under his scowl as they drew close to the mountains and the scent of death hit him hard. “You and Roach are stopping here.”

“What? But the caves are-”

“Close. Stay here, watch Roach. Don’t leave her side.” Jaskier nodded, watching as Geralt dismounted and leaned against the nearest tree. The smell of rot and old blood and decay was strong, probably all the missing people, and Geralt wasn’t risking taking him any closer, so Jaskier could pout all he wanted. 

“Very well, I’ll stay here with the horse. Be safe, though, please.” The witcher almost laughed at that, at the absurdity of  _ Jaskier  _ telling  _ Geralt  _ to be safe. He refrained, but it was a close thing. 

“Hmm,” was all he said. Before he could leave them, though, Jaskier tugged him down to kiss his cheek, a small gesture that unnerved him. Geralt worried one day Jaskier would do that in front of an audience and it would be up to him to stop the spread of rumors that the butcher was going soft, for a bard no less. Even if it was maybe just a little true, it’d get them into trouble soon enough. 

“Really, be safe,” Jaskier told him again, and this time Geralt gave him a small smile.

* * *

Looking back, maybe Geralt shouldn’t have let the torch fire get so big- shouldn’t have used fire at all when he could just as easily see into the darkness- not when he knew a damn samodiva was lurking in the caves around him. The flames would only entice her, bring her in close and give him away, but he hadn’t been thinking about that. He had been thinking about that kiss and how Jaskier’s pale skin felt under his rough hands, and generally things he shouldn’t be while hunting down a monster. She’d gotten the drop on him, because of that, slinking into view and startling the witcher. His sword was drawn and he wasn’t concerned about her influence holding any power over him, but she didn’t move to attack. Most witchers could avoid the lust men felt when driven mad by a samodiva, and he was one of those witchers. She didn’t know that. 

Still, he was surprised, and because of the surprise she managed to get closer than he expected, and he found himself hit by the smallest amount of desire as his gaze finally fell on her, but not for anything in particular. He pushed it down fast, focusing on the long hair trailing behind the nymph. His sword, silver and dark in the cold cave, barely shone as he advanced on her, not giving the spry creature a chance to escape. 

Even if it had taken a bit longer after that to chop at the monster’s hair, leaving her a smoldering pile of ash that lay simmering on the ground, he was surprised to have suffered no injury. Something always went wrong, he refused to believe things were easy again. Maybe having Jaskier safe took the edge off his fighting. 

Or so he thought, but then something creeped into his head, an urge to protect and hold and catch, but not the bard. Geralt spun around, already knowing before he saw it. Another samodiva, older and more powerful. This one was very much alive and standing a foot in front of him with fire in her eyes.

“Fuck!” She reached forward and Geralt couldn’t move, his feet rooted in place. Her hand brushed his face, just barely, and the witcher wished he could lean back or bite her or do _something_. This was her dance. Her siren’s song. Need filled Geralt, need and urgency and madness. 

“Hello-o-o? Geralt?” Of fucking course. The samodiva’s eyes darkened, gaze flickering past her new toy. No, he thought desperately. Get the fuck out of here, Jaskier.

“Won’t you save me,” the thing whispered, her voice slipping over Geralt like a fucking curse as her hand trailed down his jaw. Catching his hand as he brought it up shakily, all control was lost. He shouldn’t even be affected by this, it shouldn’t be working on him, but he pulled his sword up and turned on the unsuspecting bard stumbling in the dark. 

Protect her.  _ Kill  _ him. 

Run, bard, fucking run. 

_ Kill  _ him. Protect her.

Geralt only remembered lunging towards Jaskier after that.


	2. The DeathWatch

When he next awoke, Geralt was in a bed. A hard one, but it was better than what he’d been expecting. Which was ultimately that he wouldn’t be waking up. Hadn’t there been a creature? And he was killing it? And he remembers thinking that was it for him? He could remember his hands, closed around a pale throat. 

“Jaskier,” he breathed, shooting out of bed. Flashes of what felt like a faded dream, something he was growing too used to these days, worked their way around his head. He’d hit Jaskier with a sword, and he remembered the sharp tang of blood and then screaming. He could feel Jaskier’s skin, under his hands, bones breaking, snapping. 

“Good to see you’re awake. I can’t always come save you, Geralt. You realize this, right?” Turning to look on the other side of the bed- which of course was dragged to the center of the room because why wouldn’t it be- Geralt was shocked to find Yennefer staring down at him. 

“Yennefer. Why are you here? Where is Jaskier?” She walked around to his side, steps unhurried, and ignored his question. She held her hand up, revealing a broken ornament. It was silver, intricately designed from what he could see of the pieces, and looked like some decoration to grace the halls of a nobleman or lord’s house. He couldn’t care less about it. “Yenn, _where is Jaskier_? What happened?”

“Do you know what this is?” He spared the shattered orb a brief glance.

“Yenn, I think I hurt him, where is he?” She dropped her hand, turning away from him to continue walking around the bed, one hand twirling around the headboard. Geralt felt it was for intimidation purposes. 

“I gave this little trinket to the bard last I saw him. It's a Gift, Geralt." Something sharp twisted in Geralt’s stomach, worse than a knife. "I told him if he was ever truly on the verge of dying to take the orb and break it, and I’d be there to help.”

“Yen, what did I do,” he asked, standing up and finding his legs tired. When was the last time he felt so physically tired?

“From what I can gather, quite a bit. What do you remember?” Geralt didn’t want to play her game. He wanted to catch her in her stride and demand to know where Jaskier was, or better yet just throw open the door she stopped in front of and start looking on his own.

“I remember walking into a damn samodiva’s cave, killing it, and then finding its mother. She did something, made me lose control. Yenn, I remember hurting him." His voice was practically pleading for it to be a lie. Yennefer looked as though she didn’t quite believe it either, and that made it a lot worse, somehow.

“I’d hoped for a different answer. You can’t see him, not yet. He hasn’t woken up since you brought him back.” And when had that been, Geralt wanted to shout. The only thing keeping him under control was that he still needed answers.

“I don’t remember bringing him back from anywhere.” And where were they? “Yenn, please.”

“He’s healing. I’ll tell you what you’ve missed but afterwards you can’t go hunting for him. He needs rest.” Geralt couldn’t make himself agree to that, not in words, but he managed a nod because he was in a tailspin of confusion and he needed answers _now_.

“Tell me.” She sat down then, leaning against the headboard and watching him stand stiffly above her. The door was unblocked, but he waited for her explanation.

“I was told by some people who’d witnessed it first hand that you carried him all the way back to that hideous little town from the forest. The Gift was broken so I managed a portal close by and found you terrifying people who couldn’t help if they wanted to.” Her smile looked just a bit forced, but Geralt wouldn’t take it as meaning he’d hurt them. He wouldn’t. “I brought you and your friend here, to save his life. It wasn’t pretty, Geralt, he was...”

“Is he alive,” the witcher growled, anger not directed at her but making her eyes narrow all the same. 

“For now. Broken wrist, pierced lung and a hole in his stomach that if he’s lucky will only scar. And he is lucky, I think you managed to crack quite a few things I didn’t know existed while avoiding actually killing him. He wasn’t conscious when I came across you, but I can imagine he had to have been shortly before breaking my little Gift. I couldn’t risk waking him to ask what had happened, and you were hardly talking, so all I can tell you is that whatever happened in those woods hasn’t left this room.” Shame washed over the witcher, guilt sewing into his chest like a vice. The image of Jaskier beneath him, hands around his throat, flashed through his eyes once more.

“Fuck.” Geralt was sitting again, mostly because he had to. His damn legs were tired, his body hurt, and he was thinking he may have done something he’d never come back from. 

“He’s alive, Geralt. He’ll heal, I’ve made sure of it.” Physically, yes. Geralt wanted to shut his eyes, but he feared if he stopped looking at Yenn he’d see Jaskier, eyes turned up to his and mouth open gasping for air, pleading. 

“I don’t remember carrying him to the village. I don’t remember killing the samodiva and breaking her spell over me.” Unless Jaskier had done that, somehow. He was hardly a fighter, but stranger things had happened.

“Must be that witcher resistance in you. Maybe you shook free long enough to get away. From what the little farm boy said, you all but ran out of the woods.” If he’d managed to pull himself out of her madness, Geralt would have slain her. Why then, did he not remember doing so? Thinking about it, Geralt decided it didn’t really matter right then, because whatever had happened was done. 

“Where is he?” Yenn sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes and standing.

“You can’t wake him. He’s healing, and in a very fragile state. Well, more than usual, I should say.” Ah, a joke. She was good at that. Years of protecting herself with a sense of humor and walls of control and power. Geralt felt he used to be good at that, too, when it came to a certain bard. 

“I just want to see him. Please?”

Jaskier looked awful. More than awful, he looked dead to the world. When the door opened and Geralt first laid eyes on him, he’d felt fear strike him that while Yenn had been with him, the bard had simply died. The rise of his chest was the only clue that wasn’t the case. 

“Feels like you’re doubting my capabilities again,” the witch said, standing on the other side of the bed while Geralt watched his bard rest. 

“I never doubted your power. I’m-”

“Worried, yes. You were, then, too.” He was feeling a lot of things, worry being only one of them. There was also the dread, the feeling that when Jaskier finally did open his eyes he’d look at Geralt in fear. 

“I fucking told him to stay with Roach.” Suddenly, Geralt’s head jerked up. “Roach.”

“She’s here, just outside in the stables. Apparently your horse is smarter than the both of you, as soon as you were back at the village she was, too. Do you know how hard it is to get a normal horse through a portal? Not her, she just walked in like it was the normal thing to do.” That’s my girl, he thought with a small smile.

They were quiet after that. Yenn sat on the bed next to Jaskier after a few minutes, but Geralt wouldn’t risk waking him up. While Yennefer watched them both, sometimes snorting at the way Jaskier’s hands jerked up. 

“Can he feel any of it?” Geralt wasn’t sure why he asked. Maybe to fill the silence, maybe to put his own guilty conscious to rest. 

“Not right now. He could be dreaming, I suppose.” It was a small comfort, but it did little to ease the storm in Geralt’s head. “You know he won’t blame you. He wouldn’t blame you if you’d done this on a whim, let alone under the control of a creature. I don’t know why, but he worships you.” 

“He shouldn’t.” How many times had Jaskier almost died now, because of Geralt? The devil, the djinn, the elves, the dragon, the two griffins, the drowner. Every year that passed, another scar was left.

“Always so serious. Why don’t you go and pet your beloved horse.” Roach could use the comfort, and Geralt could, too. Despite knowing this, he had a hard time tearing his eyes away from Jaskier.

* * *

Apparently they were in Yennefer’s home, one she’d stolen from a lord. It was well stocked, she’d said. After spending the rest of what short daylight was left with Roach and Jaskier, Geralt had found Yennefer lighting candles in the kitchen. 

That night she had food made, by a servant, for them while they caught up. It was mostly just small talk, what they were up to, how they’d been, Geralt’s usual grunts of conversation. 

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you speak more than when you’re with that bard,” she pointed out. 

“Hmm.” Jaskier had a way of drawing it out of him. It took work, usually a lot of pushing buttons, but only Jaskier could make him snap the way he does. There was a time he’d been the same with Yennefer. “Hardly. He talks enough for us both, and when he’s not talking he’s singing. I’m not sure which is worse.”

“And yet, I bring him up and that's the most you’ve said all night.”

“Hmm.” Fuck. 

“Exactly. Am I correct in assuming you’ve gotten over yourself and realized how much he adores you?” She had a sly look on her face, as though holding some information over his head, and Geralt didn’t like it.

“What are you talking about?” Better to play dumb, or in this case simply ignorant. 

“Oh please, have you not heard the song? My sweet kiss? Only Jaskier would confess to loving a witcher by telling the whole world what a bitch I am for stealing him.” She watched him carefully, seeing the confusion turn to realization on his face. “You didn’t know he loved you at that point, did you? Tell me, when did you realize then? Surely not right this moment, you’ve been falling over his very name all afternoon.”

“I know how he feels.” There was no surprise in her eyes, and that somehow made him more agitated. 

“Now, maybe, but you didn’t back then. Does he know how you feel?” More or less. To an extent. Definitely not as he should. None of those answers were what she would want to hear. 

“Yes.” Whatever she had in response to that was lost as a loud thump sounded through the big house. They were both up in an instant, running.

The screaming started just as they burst through the door, finding Jaskier on the floor in a fetal position, holding his head between his arms. Yennefer cast him asleep before Geralt could do anything other than drop down beside the bard.

“What the fuck happened,” he demanded, taking the hand thrown over Jaskier’s face. He was so cold. Geralt didn’t know if that was what he should be. 

“From the looks of it he fell out of bed. I told you, he can’t be awake yet, his state is too fragile. We’ll just have to keep a better eye on him.” Geralt was so careful picking him up, his entire body willing Jaskier to stay asleep while he settled him into the bed and pulled the blanket over him. 

Yennefer didn’t mention his feral look, or how he sighed while looking down at the bard. He was grateful for that. Slowly, the panic faded to grief, and Geralt didn’t know which to prefer.

“Is that how he’ll react when he wakes up? When he remembers what I’ve done?” The notion terrified him. 

“No. Like I said, Geralt. Too soon for him to be awake. When he’s ready it’ll be more like he’s just woken from an abrupt nap. He won’t even-” Yen stopped, eyes flashing his way. 

“He won’t what?” She had that look on her that said she was hiding something. A rare look, purely because she was good at hiding when she was hiding something.

“He won’t remember.” If Geralt were human, he’d likely have gone very pale at that. Alas, he was already pale. 

“What have you done,” he whispered, and the edge of fear in his voice was not exaggerated, nor was the anger. 

“What I had, to.”

* * *

“All I’m saying, which you simply can’t understand, is that he only bathes when he’s covered from head to toe in filth! Absolutely feculent, dear Roach! How you put up with it is beyond me. I mean, you’re the one who carries him everywhere!” Roach flicked her tail, ears twitched at him in acknowledgement. Jaskier ignored her irritation, side stepping her tail when he got too close to it, strumming on his lute and walking around her in slow circles. “Phew, actually, I think you’re half of why he smells so bad! Honestly, you’ll get a good brush next time we find some stables, I promise.”

Roach bumped into him, indignant as ever.

“And it wouldn’t even bother me, truly, but then we sleep next to each other and I wake up smelling just as bad as him! I’ve had to bathe in creaks, Roach! Creaks! As if I’m some animal, no offense.” Again, Roach paid him no mind, but Jaskier was getting tired of the one-sided conversation anyway. At least _Geralt_ grunted back at him sometimes.

Geralt. Where was Geralt?

“Shouldn’t he be back by now?” They’d been waiting for at least an hour, hadn’t they? Well, no, not anywhere near an hour, but it certainly _felt_ like it! “There’s no harm in going just a bit closer, right dear?” 

She huffed. Jaskier sighed.

“Yes, I know. _Stay with the horse. Don’t leave Roach. Follow me and I’m going to tie you up. I’m a big witcher and my voice demands obedience because it’s deep and sexy._ I can defend myself just fine, thank you! In fact, I think I’ll go find him!” Jaskier might have known it was foolish to follow after Geralt, and the horse was judging him, but in his defense he was absolutely sure the witcher should have returned by now… Which, again, foolish, but it was getting boring standing around in the woods talking to a horse who kept flicking him with her tail. 

For the most part he was just walking in the same direction he’d seen Geralt go, and when he turned around and seen that Roach was out of sight he started to realize just how bad an idea it was. If he were one for backing down, he would have tried to make his way back.

Instead, even more foolishly, he kept going. The looming mountains seemed to be the only place that made sense, and when he came upon them he was hit with a gust of some foul stench that made his stomach churn. 

He may have vomited into the leaves before finding the cave the smell came from. 

It was dark. Too dark for him to see more than ten feet in. 

“Fuck. Geralt? You in here?” There was no answer. 

_Right, just… Gotta take a few steps in an-n-n-d, no, no, too dark_! Jaskier pulled his lute protectively in front of him, grateful he’d brought it. 

There was no sound in the caves, not even scary dripping, and he was starting to think he’d prefer that. The silence made it feel like something was watching him, holding its breath and waiting for him to drop his defenses. 

He thought he heard something deeper in the caves, beyond where the light reached. Lovely, just… Just step out of the light, into the dark, put the lute up, yep… 

He couldn’t see where he was going. 

Jaskier couldn’t see where he was going. 

“Fuck. Okay. This is fine. Geralt?” His hands flew out to feel for anything to stop him as he moved, and he thought he could vaguely see two figures just standing ahead of him. 

“Hello-o-o! Geralt?” He blinked and lost sight of them, his heart picking up. What if that wasn’t Geralt. What if Geralt hadn’t even come in here and was setting a trap outside the caves and Jaskier had just walked into a nest of monsters about to tear him limb from-

Oh fuck! His back hit the hard ground as something barreled into him with the force of a battering ram, pain erupting in his shoulder and arm. 

He felt something pierce through his shirt, and Jaskier slipped into a whole new world of hurt as a blade slid through his skin like paper.


	3. Beaten

Yennefer stared at him, eyes sparking with the slightest suspicion as he sat down on the bed. Not only had Jaskier been on the brink of death, but Yennefer had gone and picked through his head. 

“Will he remember me?” She snorted, and the sound made his head snap her. “Yen-”

“Relax, he’ll remember everything before what happened yesterday. And don’t look so put off, it was necessary, Geralt. A side effect of my healing powers.” For some reason, Geralt didn’t believe that for a second. “He’ll wake up, all better thanks to me, and you can both be on your way. He won’t even have to know about any of this, isn’t that for the best?” 

“He’ll have scars. How do you suggest I tell him I’m the one who left them?” Jaskier, as if sensing they were talking about him, made a noise on the bed. His head rolled to the side, facing the witcher. Geralt reached down to touch him, thinking he’d offer some amount of comfort, but found himself pulling away at the last second. He was worried if he felt Jaskier right now he’d be reminded of putting those marks on his skin.

“The truth, if you’d like, or not. That’s up to you. You can tell him it was all you and leave it at that. Give him a healthy dose of fear. Maybe finally send him on his way, before he gets hurt worse than this.” A mess of pain spread through his chest at that, constricting him tightly. 

“As if he’d ever believe me. Besides, I won’t let him get hurt again.”  _ He’ll be safe with me, I can protect him,  _ Geralt wanted to say, but he wondered how true that was now. “I won’t send him away.”

“Like it or not, he’s human. There will come a day when you have to say goodbye to him, Geralt. It’d be kinder to you both to do it when he still has a life to live and you aren’t too attached.” Too late, Geralt thought bitterly. 

“I’ve tried. I kicked him out of my life and it didn’t do either of us a bit of good. Fuck, Yen. I think I need him.” He let his hand fall to Jaskier’s forehead, brushing his short hair back as it stuck to his face with sweat. “I don’t know how, but I won’t lose him. I’ll find a way to make everything work.”

“Finally find your sweet words, then, dear witcher?” Geralt grumbled, not looking away from the sleeping bard. He had the words all along, always knew what to say, he just chose to keep them to himself. 

If that left him a bit out of practice, well, that was probably his own doing. 

“Don’t let Jaskier know, he’ll never let it go,” Geralt said, a wry smile on his face.

“You don’t really mind it, do you?” Yennefer was definitely mocking him, no doubt had that piercing smile on her face, but she was right,  _ so right _ , that Geralt didn’t say a word. “ _ I knew it _ ! And you fault him for being soft!”

"Hmmm."

* * *

“Fuck, fuck, what! Geralt! Geralt!” He was up and running, though he didn’t know where or how. There’d been pain, really bad pain, and something about it kicked him into action. He’d wiggled and kicked and broke free of strong hands and now he was running. 

The weight of whoever hit him had disappeared as he squirmed, for just long enough for him to get up and go, but he knew they were behind him. He could hear the footsteps, the dirt and mud squishing, behind him, coming after him, and he didn’t dare stop. He’d find Geralt, somewhere, and Geralt would help him.    
The light from the mouth of the cave came into view and Jaskier ran to it with all he had, feet desperately kicking at the dirt as he struggled to not trip, to not fall or slow. Just as he stepped into the light, something caught the collar around his neck and he went tumbling to the ground, someone else tangled with him. 

They rolled a few times, Jaskier ending up with his face pressed into the ground and a heavy mass pinning him down. He managed to ruse the brief moment to roll away from the arms of whatever unholy thing had chased him, only to find a familiar face before him.

“Oh  _ thank fuck _ ! Geralt? What are you doing, did you kill the thing?” His witcher looked a bit worse for wear and kind of angry, which Jaskier deserved because he  _ did  _ leave Roach like he said he wouldn’t, but he was never more grateful to be seeing that furious look. 

And then Geralt was racing forward in just half a step, knocking him on his back and bearing down on him, and he felt the pain. With all the running and his heart thrumming louder than his footsteps he had managed to look past the pain, but now he glanced down at the red blossoming over his shirt on his stomach and shoulder and nearly choked.

“Geralt, that hu-”

“Shut up,” he growled, and his voice was so low and so feral that a tremor rocked Jaskier’s body. Fear was the appropriate response to how he was behaving.The witcher pulled Jaskier up by his shirt, hand flying up to catch Jaskier’s wrist when he went to smack him away. He twisted it, enticing a shriek from the bard’s mouth and a snap from his wrist.

“Fuck, Geralt! Geralt, stop!” There was no crawling away, not running from this. He kicked, hard, and landed a blow to Geralt’s stomach, but it didn’t faze the man on top of him. He could see only rage in his eyes, only hunger and fury and passion, and none of the good kind of any of those. “Geralt, stop this! For fuck’s sake, have you gone completely mad?”

“Protect her,” he thought he heard Geralt whisper as he swung, hitting Jaskier square in the jaw. Pain exploded across his face, his neck tensing as he pulled something with the force of it. He thought Geralt hit him again on the other side after that, but he hadn’t recovered from the blinding white searing through his skull from the first blow so he couldn’t be completely sure. When his vision returned Geralt’s hands had just closed around his throat and started to squeeze the life out of him. If Jaskier wasn’t afraid before, he was now. Geralt wasn’t playing, wasn’t just teaching him some cruel lesson, not that he thought that was something Geralt would ever think to do to  _ him _ .

Something was digging into his back and he was cold and he couldn’t  _ breathe _ or  _ think _ or  _ do _ , but he vaguely remembered a gift from Yennefer, one he kept in his pocket, and with his good hand he blindly reached for it. Geralt knocked his hand away before pressing down harder on his throat. He tried moving slower, fingers digging at the cloth with urgent messy tugs. 

“Geralt,” he wheezed, tongue feeling too big for his mouth and eyes opening wide. “Geralt, please!”

He thought he saw a woman, then, standing over Geralt’s shoulder. She was gorgeous, like an angel with feathered wings. Or was that her gown? Jaskier wasn’t sure and he tore his eyes away to look back up at Geralt. If he was dying the angel could wait. He wanted to see Geralt before he went, to be looking at those striking yellow eyes.

Without really meaning to words spilled from his mouth in a hiss, his last breath spent saying the only thing he could think of. 

“ _ Geralt, it’s me! I love you! _ ” Instantly the weight was gone, but he couldn’t draw in the air fast enough and his vision that had begun to fade at the edges was now fading to black. The last thing he knew before shutting his eyes was that Yennefer’s gift was in his hand, unbroken, and there were flames and shrieking and he felt very cold and broken.


	4. Revenant

Night had passed with little and light sleep and morning came just as quickly and without any more incidents. Jaskier still slept soundly, was still healing, and Geralt grew more agitated the longer he went without hearing the annoying bard’s voice. It was midday before Yennefer started growing tired of his constant moping.

It was just that, too. Moping. Like some teenage girl who’s heart had been broken for the first time. Complete with all except the crying, which Geralt didn’t do. She expected it would take a lot more to make him cry.

The whole mess of it wasn’t very interesting, though. He explored the house without really taking anything in, sometimes finding Yennefer to ask if there was any progress before going back to his sad little pity party. It wasn’t even fun to watch, as she might have hoped. Not at all like his usual brooding was.

And brooding she could handle. Brooding was mysterious. It was sexy and made him more alluring, like a predator that lures its prey in with false trust before striking out and devouring it’s meal. Brooding made her want to take him by the front of his shirt and throw him in bed, to ravage and be ravaged by. Those thoughts came with being tied by a djinn’s magic, so she banished them fast.

The man aimlessly walking around her home was getting on her nerves, though, and that helped to remind her she didn’t feel for him like that. Not really. What she once thought was love now felt more like distant admiration and vague annoyance. How had she ever thought he was anything but an idiot like the rest of them? 

Of course, she knew that wasn’t really fair or true. Geralt _wasn’t_ like the rest of them, wasn’t an idiot like Jaskier for sure or cruel like humans. That came with being older, with living longer, she supposed. He was a fool in his own way, still, but not like men usually were.

The only reason he was being like this was grief and pain, and she was hardly ignorant to heartbreak herself. That being said, she was unable to concentrate to get anything done with him hanging around, so she went to check on the bard, figuring if she must be useless she might as well do so with compliant company.

“You know you’re actually lucky you don’t have to put up with him when he’s like this,” she said, talking to the revenant man on her bed. “He’s impossible. You’d think he’d just lost you, the way he’s carrying on.”

Which, again, she had to remind herself that was fair. Jaskier may not be dead, but nobody except for her knew just how close he’d come to the brink. Geralt did that. Probably with ease and well practiced precision. Did he not think it was odd that Jaskier had survived him?

They’d poked through his memories, for a bit, just to better understand what had happened, and Geralt was slowly starting to remember more and more. If he knew that Jaskier had stopped breathing at some point, she couldn’t be sure.

“How did you enchant him so well?” Jaskier did not respond with more than the moving of his eyes behind his closed lids. 

“He doesn’t just love you. He does, I mean, but that isn’t all. He once offered sex in exchange for me fixing you, did you know that? During my orgy, no less. I’ll admit, I considered it.” And then they’d had sex anyway, but it hadn’t meant anything. Hadn’t meant as much as one look between Jaskier and Geralt could mean. 

“I’m sorry I took him from you, back then. Even a child could have seen how much you wanted him.” And she was no child. “I don’t regret it, not really, but that’s just me. I do feel bad, but he was the best I’d had and I'd do it again.” 

The best she’d likely ever have, for that matter.

“You’re lucky in that regard, too. Do you think it’s all witchers who are great at sex or is it just that he’s had practice?” She laughed then, at her own absurdity. It’d been a long time since she gossiped like some girl, probably since she was a girl, and it felt nice. She only wished Jaskier was awake to indulge her curiosity. How well they could get along, when they weren’t hurling insults at each other.

Something caught her attention, then, while she watched him as a mother might watch her child. Something pink and terrible poking through his hair. When she brushed it aside and looked closer, she thought maybe she was imagining things. Leaning over him she pushed his hair aside on the other side, as well. A bitter laugh tore through her.

“How did I not see that coming? Keeping secrets, are we Jaskier?” The clipped ear was easy to miss, at first. It hadn’t been done with magic, but rather crude tools and a cruder hand. If it had been a mage they wouldn’t have left scars. She wondered if he’d ripped them off himself.

“I wonder if our witcher knows,” she pondered, brushing the soft hair back down over the clipped ear. She wanted to ask, wanted to get up and go straight to Geralt, but it wasn’t exactly her place and for once she’d honor that. Until Jaskier was awake, at least.

* * *

Things hurt very much for Jaskier, and he wasn't sure why. He also wasn’t sure which things, but he thought maybe his chest and arm. His stomach, too. Everything felt so _heavy_ heavy. Heavy wasn't it? Heavy.

What was it? The pain. Why did he feel like his heart should be beating fast? Why could he not feel his heart at all? Why did he find it so hard to breathe? Jaskier's eyes were shut tight, out of fear as far as he knew. There didn’t seem to be anything hurting him, though, so he let them slip open now. 

It was _bright_! Everything was so bright. He was standing in a very hilly meadow, staring at the bright yellow fields of freshly bloomed dandelions in disbelief. Some of them had turned to fuzz around his ankles, tickling him every time the wind blew. A laugh escaped his lips, carrying out over the hills. He felt like singing. Very much like singing. Were his thoughts always so quick to change?

As beautiful and nice as the flowery landscape was, he couldn't help but feel something was wrong. Lonely. Where was Geralt? Where was Roach? Where was the forest? There were no trees for as far as he could see, just endless hills of glowing flowers. Faintly, he thought he could smell and hear the ocean, but the mountains they’d sought were nowhere in sight, and he felt an ounce of fear return to him.

“Hello?” Taking a small step, he found he didn’t hurt as much as he thought. The further he moved from where he’d been standing, the more his aches disappeared and faded from memory. Jaskier didn’t really know where he was, but hadn’t he just been being beaten within an inch of his life? What had happened to him? There was a ballad to write and a witcher to thank, he didn't have time for flowers.

Everything here was serene, though. Bright and pretty and distracting, he realized. Wasn’t it everything Jaskier could want in a break from the usual hustle and bustle of his life? The smell of flowers, their soft and sweet scents drifting past him with each light dusting of wind. He took another step forward, less uncertain as he began to forget why he was so worried when he was somewhere so beautiful.

“Jaskier!” He whipped around, quicker than he’d ever managed. The fields were dead behind him, dandelions wilted and dry, and he was hit with the smell of decay and death, sending him stumbling back with the back of his hand thrown over his nose. Geralt was standing there, staring between them with a look Jaskier couldn’t place. Or rather, he could place it, but he had never seen it on Geralt so plainly before. Fear.

“Geralt? Where are we?” Geralt didn’t answer him, though. Instead, he dropped to his knees, bloody sword falling from his swords to land in the dead flowers with a soft thud. Geralt ignored it, bending over something on the ground and reaching for it. Jaskier tried to step closer, but the pain returned and he gasped, falling to his knees as well. Every inch closer was like water being sucked into his lungs, but he had to see. He had to see it or it wasn’t real.

“Jaskier? Fuck, Jaskier!” He could see the bloody shirt Geralt was so carefully trying to pull open, could smell the coppery blood he could never stand. 

“Geralt, it’s fine, I’m right here.” Except, he wasn’t? He was laying on the ground before Geralt, wasn’t he? His hands itched and the bard looked down to see that his beloved dandelions were fading everywhere now. Jaskier turned around frantically, looking at the fields of dandelions dying with an almost panic. 

He looked back to Geralt, at the wild wolf, suddenly very afraid. “Geralt?”

“Fuck, what happened? Jaskier, it’s going to be okay, just open your eyes.” Oh. _Oh, please not yet_. Jaskier looked down at himself then, at his knees sinking into wet dirt and his stomach sliced open, his chest soaked. He wasn’t bleeding anymore, but he was stained red all over and the ache was returning. What was this? What was he seeing? 

He did his best to ignore the pain as he crawled on his hands and knees towards Geralt. Even if he didn't know what was happening, he was sure that he wasn’t ready to die yet. He wasn’t ready to stop living damn it! He reached for his own hand, trying not to look at the bloody face staring up with nothing behind the eyes. 

That isn't me. I'm here, Geralt. I'll come back! 

Jaskier pulled the fingers curled tightly around the small metallic ornament open, forcing himself to push past the pain. As soon as his hand closed around the Gift, he crushed it, feeling it dig into his palm.

He gasped awake, then. His eyes were still shut tight, and he couldn't really open them more than a sliver. Everything hurt. He couldn't breathe. Everything hurt. 

“Hang on to me, I’ve got you,” he heard Geralt whisper above him. 

Everything hurt, but he believed him.


	5. A Scintillate Life

Yennefer couldn’t believe it. Honestly, she was shocked. 

It had taken Jaskier two whole years to break the Gift of Protection. Two. Whole. Years. She figured when she gave it to him she’d be summoned within the week, day possibly. And probably for some purpose way beneath her. Like a splinter.

Yen was wishing it was just a splinter, secretly. 

She’d portalled to his location, or as close as she could get, and heard the commotion before she even reached the town. When she finally found him, it was with no surprise that Geralt was there, too. What was surprising was the animalistic look on his face as he snarled at some welp barely boy turned man.

“Just fucking help him!” Oh. Lovely. He didn’t see her, was too busy terrorising the poor people. Maybe not a splinter, then. 

She got close enough to see he was clearly not alright. Something about the way he moved just didn’t scream Geralt. He was stiff, as usual, and looked a bit worse off, but it was more than that. Something besides the fact that he looks like he’s about to kill that poor man, she realized before deciding to make herself known.

“ _Geralt_.” The sound of her voice caught his attention, but as he turned to face her fully there was no recognition in his eyes at his name or her face, no relief at seeing one of the only competent people he knew. Rude, she thought with a flare of irritation.

Jaskier hung limply in his arms, looking more like a corpse than the bard she had grown so fond of. Definitely not just a splinter then. Well, shit.

“For the love of- What happened this time?” 

“You! Fix him.” And excuse me, what? The blatant indignation on her face did not deter him as he held Jaskier out for her to see. Jaskier twitched but showed no sign of responding to being jostled around. Choosing to ignore that she was just growled at by a full grown man, she looked closer. 

“Hold him steady, you’ll only hurt him swinging him around like that,” she chastised. Geralt reamined wild eyed and feral looking. “Hey, I’ll help him. He’ll be fine.” 

“They wouldn’t help him,” Geralt said, eyes flashing to the gathered townspeople, looking and sounding like a wounded pup instead of a ferocious wolf. She’d never seen him like this. Less witcher than man, but still less man than mutant. 

“I know, but Geralt there’s nothing they can do.” When Yen reached out to touch Jaskier, the softness faded and he jerked back, eyes narrowing on her once more. 

“No,” he growled, and Yen knew for sure something was wrong with that. Even if he was messed up over Jaskier being… whatever he was right then, he’d never refuse her help to save him

“I’ll help him, but I can hardly do a thing for him without getting closer.” The witcher showed no sign of relenting, making her sigh. “I could knock you on your ass, if you’d prefer that.”

“No one touches him,” he snarled. 

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

She at least managed to stop Jaskier from hitting the ground too hard after she sent Geralt flying into the side of a well. 

Geralt, luckily, was knocked unconscious by the blow and Yennefer found it much easier to turn her attention to the dying bard without an angry overprotective wolf getting in the way. Any humor she’d thought she might get out of saving Jaskier’s life once more was nowhere to be found as she realized that Jaskier had stopped breathing.

“Shit!” There was no time to waste, Jaskier simply couldn’t afford it, so rather than try and heal him in the middle of fuck all nowhere she opened a portal to her home. Getting two grown men, one considerably _more_ grown, through that portal took magic and a lot of urgency. And more struggle than it took for the damn horse, if she was being honest.

As uncomfortable as the creature was, she did so with more grace than Yen would expect of any animal, and the witch was grateful that she didn't have to waste time calming Roach when her attention was needed elsewhere. Thank the gods Geralt had chosen his companions well, both human and horse. 

She left Geralt on the floor where he'd come through and had one of the mayor’s servants, who were all too happy to assist, help her move Jaskier to her bedroom where she could hopefully save his life. It was pure luck that he had started breathing again, just as it was pure bad luck that he stopped almost immediately after she’d wrapped his stomach and healed the bleeding lung struggling for oxygen.

Several times she worried his body would give out, unable to take the strain of his heart stopping twice and breathing becoming so erratic.

After his eyes opened and she seen the pain in them, she made a decision. It was obvious he wasn’t going to make it on his own, not without a little unconventional magical interference. Not a curse, of course. She just did the only thing she could think to do. 

Yen put him under a spell, let him slip into a healing sleep, and as cost he would not remember what put him there. Forfeiting something always made it easier, that she knew too well. Her, Geralt, and whatever else he’d seen for the past week he’d likely kiss goodbye, but it was better than being dead. Better than living without him.

It was all she could do. His state was impossibly fragile, every breath an ordeal, but she was confident he'd make it after that. With that in mind, she left him to rest and sought out Geralt, still lying on the floor. A hint of foreign magic drifted about him, something from overseas, perhaps. When she finally placed it as whatever had him acting so off Yen banished it, not at all happy with the implications of what dark magic might have plagued him. 

Whatever happened, she dreaded what part Geralt himself had played in it.

* * *

Fading in and out. Awake, asleep, dead, awake. His life retreating and flaring back up like the flickering of the candle flame set too close to the open window that one night of studying. Cold. It was cold. And there were things he could almost see. Memories. So many memories. 

Fishing that one time with the visiting duke’s son, and sneaking out to perform in the inn late at night. Those times he’d been caught being the best nights in his life, despite the harsh consequences from his father. 

“Oh Julian, you’ll make an excellent viscount, I just know it!” His friend and lover, Charala, when he was just seventeen years old.

“Don’t run down the stairs, Dandelion!” His nanny, a wonderful woman, when he was seven.

“I may only be trouble.” Geralt, just a few months back while he laid Jaskier down and held his face gently. His sweet lovable Geralt, who was probably very concerned right now. Who’d been hitting him, who’d pierced him with a blade and not the fun kind. 

Geralt, who we wished very desperately to see right now, to ask what in the world had been going through his head when he tried choking the life out of him. 

Those painful memories he’d just experienced were getting harder to see though, and despite the nastiness in them Jaskier wept at that. He didn’t want to forget anything that happened with his Geralt. Every second he spent with the witcher was to be cherished, held on to tightly. And yet, he knew he couldn’t. Because already he couldn’t quite remember just what he wanted to hold onto, and he was remembering other things. 

A hot humid night spent in the mist of perfect bliss, wrapped up snug under a thin blanket with a white haired man. Tender looks, a loving embrace, the best he'd ever had. There was more, much more.

Brief moments where he'd looked out at the world and wondered who he was, if he was all he could be. Asking his father about it and being beaten for making his mother upset with his worrying. 

An evening spent picking through clothes he’d bring with him after the ceremony to title him viscount left him aching for more adventure. Adventure he'd found, certainly. He learned of love, and loss, heartache and want, songs and mirth unlike any he'd known.

And oh all those memories. So many memories, so little time. 

Like the time he’d wandered out into the snow as a child and got lost, nearly died his mother would and did claim. Thinking back, he had not nearly died. He’d been weak, sure, but clearly the maids and his mother were overreacting when they’d found him stumbling around with dark lips and frozen trousers. 

No, near death wasn’t being a little weak, it was this. Opening your eyes one second to see a worried face you hadn’t thought you’d see for a long time telling you she was sorry if it hurt, only to close them and see nothing, know nothing. 

It was madness, a madness he detested that left him delirious and high on anxiety. Jaskier wasn’t sure how much time passed like that, tumbling around in his own life in the form of vague remembrance, but he knew someone was waiting for him to wake up. 

The only problem was, he didn’t know how. Every now and then the idea of a thread appeared, needle thin, and he’d chase it down only to find it’d slipped away. He thought maybe if he caught the thread and pulled he might wake up from this nightmare. 

Then he caught the thread, pulled, and suddenly he felt like he was on fire and he was rolling to put it out and screaming and everything hurt. When it stopped he was in his memories again, and he decided maybe he wouldn’t chase any more threads. 

That really left him with not a lot to do but relive his life like a ghost. Not one of Geralt’s spectres, but a ghost of memory, of something he knew he was. This was a true haunting, not poltergeists or apparitions, but this. Being trapped in some hellish limbo where he couldn’t really do or be, but he could exist in thought and time. 

Still better than the flames. Things may not be physical wherever he was floating, but he at least had his moments of conscious thought outside of his life flashing before his eyes. 

When the thread next came, he did not chase it. It dangled nearby, as if asking for him to tug it, but he refused. The pain that existed out there was too much, too much for him to risk leaving the safe and dull echo of his inner turmoil. 

The thread had other ideas, it would seem. It didn’t leave, would not relent, and when he pushed it away it was wrapped around his mind more like a rope, a noose, than a thread. 

There was no pulling away, no running. The rope was dragging him towards what he was sure would be pain. Everything felt so fragile and fast, like he was falling from such a high distance that everything was a blur.

He could feel his body, then, for the first time since he’d first chased the thread, and it did not hurt. Everything had a fine tingle, like muscles after resting for too long in a strained position, but the flames were nowhere to be found.

When the pins and needles faded too, Jaskier knew for certain he was not dead or in limbo or stuck in his own thoughts.

Jaskier knew because he could feel a cool hand holding his. He was awake.


End file.
